


Storm

by lucifers_buttocks



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Angst, Coffee, Embarrassment, Fluff, Hiding in a car, In which Dale fucks up, Kissing, M/M, kissu kissu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifers_buttocks/pseuds/lucifers_buttocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dale pauses. He normally isn’t the one to sulk in the back over mistakes that can somewhat be ignored, but Harry is making him feel all sorts of strange emotions lately and he decides to himself that sitting in the car isn’t going to hurt anyone anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm

 

 

_Someone once (I forget who it was)_   
_Said, "Do not think so much_   
_You can't hear what your heart says."_   
_But it speaks, it tugs and puddle-leaps,_   
_And bangs my ribs to pieces_   
_Thoughts are the safe bet._

 

        A dozen around-the-clock days spent in the unique and tantalizing town that is Twin Peaks and already Dale Cooper’s heart is stolen right from his chest. 

        Which explains quite a bit when he stops and thinks about it. He strives to be honest with himself, and that would include admitting that he’s already had some theories formulated on why he gets a little hot under the collar when Harry is standing too close or when he starts experiencing unnecessary butterflies in his stomach at so much of the thought of the sheriff sending him those shy smiles that tell him he’s done good. He assumed it was just theories and silly ideas. Anyway, it wasn’t (and still isn’t) needed to exploit further. The complex case of Laura Palmer doesn’t involve in his own idealized romances. 

        He reclines in his seat. One of his hands cups an empty mug of coffee while the other absently fiddles with a wrinkle around the knee of his pants. He directs his gaze in front of him, right outside the windshield of his own car. Had it not been raining so hard, Dale imagines he might have already been making his way to his hotel room in the Great Northern with slouched shoulders and a well-needed rest for his dampened mood. Yet at this rate, the storm surrounding him is going to delay his arrival back to the hotel for at least another hour or two at most. So he waits in his own company along the end of the sidewalk in front of the police station. 

        After a few moments, Dale decides to tug his most treasured tape recorder out of his pocket and he begins to reencounter what really has caused all of this mess. 

        “Diane, it’s…” Dale pulls his sleeve slightly. To his dismay, the numbers are difficult to discern in the dark. “Well, I don’t know what time it is. Ten-to-one, maybe. I would like to make a point that this will be extremely unprofessional of me, but I’m at a lost for what to do. Diane, I haven’t felt this low since the case with Windom Earle, and you know how terrible that was…” A rolling drum of thunder gives out a menacing growl. He lowers the recorder for a second, surprised at how the rain seems to be increasing tenfold. The chill of the storm seeps into his vehicle and a shiver crawls up his spine. “I’ve mentioned Sheriff Truman a few times to you, haven’t I? Well, I hope you know it to be as true as well as I do when I say I don’t fall in love easy, but—and I’m sure you know where this is going, Diane—I’ve fallen for him.” 

        The words seem to hold an impossible echo.

        Dale smiles a little in spite of his embarrassment. “And I made such a fool of myself earlier. After we called it a night, Harry asked me if I’d like to come to his house, and Diane, he had this look in his eyes that said it all. I opened my mouth to say yes, and you would not _believe_ what I admitted instead. I…” The recollection causes his face to flush slightly. He pretends none of it bothers him and continues to tame his voice. “I told him I love him. Which, let me remind you that although what I spoke was truth, it was neither the time nor place for that kind of thing.” Harry had this startled expression and his eyebrows had drawn together in confusion and even now the agent feels sick. A twisted coil in his stomach knots up. “It had been sort of a spur-of-the-moment confession. Now that I think about it, I can’t quite understand why I would reply with that.” With that said, Dale knows himself as well as the next guy. He isn’t the one to blurt out unfiltered responses. Briefly, he wonders if the coffee had been spiked.

        “Diane, in an instance of what I’d like to presume to be a bittersweet answer to my prayers, Deputy Andy came knocking right into my side and the coffee I’d been holding went spilling right on Harry.” The scene had been a disaster, but through the urge to profusely apologize over and over (if not for the coffee, then definitely for the awkward revelation), relief came bubbling. He figures, had Andy not skated through the station and bump into him, he wouldn’t have had an excuse to disappear for the night. “Thankfully, Deputy Hawke was there and he was already taking Harry to the conference room to clean him up, and if I may be frank, Diane, I’m still humiliated about the entire ordeal.” Dale pauses. He normally isn’t the one to sulk in the back over mistakes that can somewhat be ignored, but Harry is making him feel all sorts of strange emotions lately and he decides to himself that sitting in the car isn’t going to hurt anyone anyway. He doesn’t want to admit the last part to Diane, though, so with a long silent ending, he finally slides the power button off with a muffled click. 

        He nearly jumps out of his seat at a foreign knock on the glass across the interior of the car. With the rain clouding and blurring the passenger window, and with the night masking the figure itself, Dale can’t fully inspect the stranger from the inside. Letting the mug slip onto the carpet by his feet, Dale uses his free hand to reach for his gun while the other hesitantly pressures the “unlock all” toggle. It happens all so fast—one second he’s unsheathing the handgun from his pocket as the passenger door opens wide, and in the next second, he’s staring face-to-face with the man he’s been avoiding for a good thirty-five minutes now. Judging by his dripping hair, as well as his fresh clothes that are ruined with rainwater, Dale would estimate that the sheriff has been bearing through the storm for more than a couple of minutes. Then again, he imagines that it wouldn’t take very long to be soaked to the bone in this harsh weather.  

        “…I thought you’d been gone by now.” Harry finally says, out of all things.

        Dale wants to laugh and shield himself at the same time. Instead of going through with either plan, he opts to gradually sneak the weapon back into his jacket pocket and smile, not unkindly. “I thought so, too.” In higher spirits, he might have gone on to compliment the rain and how it works magic to bring out all the variety of Douglas fir scents. He might have commented on the whole beauty of it to witness lightning in this little corner of the world. But the agent is in no mood to keep a lively disposition and decides to draw his eyes straight ahead. He pretends to be as comfortable as he can under the circumstances, but it’s evident that he’s anything but relaxed. 

        It almost feels like hours pass, condensed in the thunderous patter of the raindrops on the windshield. There’s a soft rhythm, a wonderful beat that the agent could appreciate. He’s reminded of the small red man and when he closes his eyes, he can almost hear the music pattern in the weather. He glances sideways, wondering if Harry can hear it as well, but the sheriff hasn’t made a move since he invited himself in the car. From the agent’s peripherial vision, Harry has his head angled in such a way it reminds Dale of a troubled dog. He doubts the sheriff can hear anything amongst the falling water. Returning his attention to particularly nothing in the seemingly vacant town facing him, the agent chooses to ignore the music and, for once, he turns a blind eye to any messages his own subconscious might be trying to spell out. 

        It’s at that point his ears perk at the gruff sound of his companion clearing his throat. Dale offers his attention toward Harry with reluctance in his movements. 

        “Listen, Coop, uh… About, you know, earlier…” Hesitation pinpricks the sheriff’s tone. Dale tenses visibly, and if Harry takes notice, he doesn’t show it. Instead, the man coughs a nervous laugh. “You come on pretty strong. Which— Which is fine! You just took me by surprise there for a second.” The agent finally meets his eyes, and to his own bewilderment, embarrassed streaks clouds his partner’s irises. “Look, what I’m trying to get at is, uh, I— I like you. I mean, I _like_  you. Too.” 

        His shamed, deflated heart stutters in its beating, catching wind of a sudden excitement and beginning to float upwards. Astonishment causes him to stare, his face heating up into a scorching hot sensation on his cheeks and ears. Of all the things he would have ever dared to fantasize his friend to say, this is not one of them. A smile fights its way to his lips, and he can only choke out an, “Oh.” Despite all of his daydreams (at night, of course, when sleep would not come easy and the chance of being caught in his bed would be next to nil), his words fall short and he can only repeat, “Oh.”

        “Oh.” Harry agrees. He thinks maybe the sheriff is closing the space between them, or maybe Dale himself is the one leaning closer, but all is lost in the world when tentative lips brush aside one another. Something thrilling spikes inside of him, as if he’s been pleasantly electrocuted from head to toe; as if the perplexity of Laura Palmer’s killer has blanked out temporarily. Another, more firm kiss is shared. And another. Harry arm swings slowly over to his hand, fingers urging their palms into one another. Harry’s hand, Dale learns, is calloused, but not so much that it’s too tough to be comfortable with. The average experience of a handgun is etched into the sheriff’s palms, and Dale can feel every engraved line against his own, much softer palms. The comfort from such a touch alone is astounding, and to say that the agent has felt this way about holding hands with every other man and woman he’s been with would be an outright lie. 

        As they break for breath, the sheriff asks deliberately, breathlessly, “Do you still want to come over? It’s late, but…”

        “Say no more, Harry.” Dale’s grin is blinding, “I would be  _honored_  to go home with you.” 

* * *

 

        Dale and Harry decide to start holding hands. Harry tells him that in Twin Peaks, it won’t be very surprising, especially considering how close they are anyway. Dale expects the worst, however. He imagines a riot will start up the very second the public eye catches sight of them. The rest of Washington wasn’t (and  _still_ isn’t) kind to his unnervingly shy and mild displays of affection to the same sex, and New York wasn’t any better. Somewhere during the grimaces of strangers and outright anonymous voiced complaints of his “unprofessional work,” the agent has come with low expectations at this sort of thing. The rest of the world tells him small towns equal small minds, and although Twin Peaks has again and again turned and twisted the very notion of that law, he can only assume so much before the townsfolk distance themelves of so-called “freaks” like himself. He eventually confides in the sheriff of these concerns at dawn, when their voices are still small and soft, as if to not break the peaceful morning tranquility. Dale has doubts that they should pursue a relationship (even though he would very much like to) but leaves that last bit out.

        “No one is going to get all worked up about it, Coop.” The feathery tone in Harry’s voice both comforts and worries him. Half of him wants to disagree;  _everyone will care_ and in the worst case scenario, he will find himself being cruelly affronted by once friends and neighbors, and who is going to want a sheriff that isn’t  _normal_? Another half of himself, a small, weak voice suggests that he should trust his partner. Perhaps it won’t be that bad? And who’s to say the people thriving on the lands of Twin Peaks won’t mind his preference in something as silly as romantic inclination? 

        He hopes not, anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> oh gosh this is my first Twin Peaks thing uuugghhhh i'm sorry for everything not good about it  
> This story is dedicated to Taylor, who had asked for a story with the prompt, " so like i kind of want to read a story where obviously dale has like this big crush on harry from like the second he gets into twin peaks and like I just want a scene where he get so flustered and stuff that he ends up spilling his coffee on harry and like gets even more flustered and embarrassed and just what a cutie you know"  
> PS the lyrics at the beginning are from "Silent War" by A Fire Frenzy


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